Assault with Intent
by idelthoughts
Summary: Truth or Consequences N.M." fanfiction - a challenge! Curtis Freley landed in jail for a reason. It could have been the coke, or the penchant for carrying knives, or it could have just been his bad temper...


This is a fanfic that I wrote in response to a challenge issued by Kellifer Monkey - a 3-5,000 word piece on a movie starring Kiefer Sutherland. We chose Truth of Consequences, N.M., and even if you're not familiar with the movie, it shouldn't be a problem reading this story.   
  
The character of Curtis is played by Mr. Sutherland in the movie, but the setting and the other characters in this story are all my own creation. This is a little supposition about what landed Curtis in jail that time he met Ray, and set up all the circumstances the movie takes off on.  
  
Please, feedback is always welcome. This story was written far outside of my usual style (or so it felt like to me), so any comments about it would be most helpful and appreciated.  
  
Warning: lots of foul language. And violence. And drug use. Charming, charming people all, these characters.  
  
Enjoy!  
  
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ASSAULT WITH INTENT  
  
"Lemme see...five, corner pocket."   
  
Curtis Freley bent over to line up the shot, poised to tap the cue ball to sink the delicate shot. With a manic glint in his eye, he slammed the cue ball far too hard and it ricocheted off the corner, flying around the table . Coloured balls jumped and flew, several spilling over the edge and rolling away. Curtis laughed raucously at the consternation on his opponent's face.   
  
"Shit Curtis, we're never going to finish the game at this rate." John, his partner, bent over and picked up one errant ball with an angry swipe, tossing it back onto the table.   
  
As John ducked under the table to find the other balls, Curtis chuckled again and leaned a hip against the table. He tapped his clunky rings against the wooden table, matching the upbeat music blaring through the bar as he spoke to John.  
  
"Watching you do that, it reminds of when I was a kid," Curtis said. "I used to have this dog, and he loved chasing balls. I loved him, but he was a fucking stupid dog. He'd be running around my legs, pissing himself with excitement, looking at the ball in my hand, but as soon as I threw the fucking thing, he'd just drop to the ground and start licking his own."   
  
"Shut the fuck up, or you're going to be looking for your own balls on the floor." John's grumbling voice floated up through the table.  
  
Curtis gave a snort and snagged his bottle of beer off the edge of the pool table. He took a long pull while scanning the room. The bar looked much the same as it always did - in the twelve years he had been in and out of this place, everything had remained the same. Same faded posters of scantily clad women leering from the walls, same grim bartender, same tunes on the juke box. Curtis bounced his head unconsciously as another classic rock tune cranked up, saturating the bar with loud guitar riffs and tinny drums. The air smelled of years of beer and sweat. He sniffed a few times, rubbing at his coke-numbed nose. He could feel the high crashing. Almost time for another rail.  
  
Curtis upended the beer bottle again and drained it, and let out a fantastic belch just as John returned to dump three balls back on the green felt tabletop.  
  
"Last call, you want another?" A waitress drifting by scooped up their empty bottles in one hand. She had the tired look of someone coming off a long shift. Curtis' eyes narrowed as he gave her the once over, stopping to examine her cleavage, then drifting upwords to meet her eyes which were full of professional disinterest, and a challenge that said, 'keep looking and you might lose something'. His smile disappeared. He dropped his eyes and covered his embarrassment by chalking up the end of his pool cue. The waitress glanced over to John, waiting for a response.  
  
"Yeah," he said, "two more." He threw a few bills at her, which she scooped up and went on her way.  
  
"Stupid bitch," Curtis grumbled, glaring at the retreating waitress. He leaned over to line up for another shot. "Last call. Jesus Christ." He looked up at John, who was stuffing his wallet back in his pocket. "Have you ever been to Ireland?."  
  
"No," John said.  
  
"You know, they don't have last call there. They keep serving you drinks as long as you keep asking for them. They close up all the roads downtown on Friday and Saturday nights, and you just take your drinks from bar to bar, and drink wherever you want. And they don't stop serving until they're out of beer, which is never, because they've all got their own fucking breweries in the back, so they just tap a new keg and they've got more beer, see? "  
  
John raised an eyebrow skeptically as he lit up a cigarette and took a long drag.  
  
"And then there's Holland, you ever been to Holland?" The seven-ball dropped into the side pocket, and Curtis targeted another ball.   
  
"Is that the same as the Netherlands?"  
  
Curtis shook his head. "No, you're thinking of Sweden. Anyway, you go there, and beer's like candy. They have it everywhere, and I'm not talking about them having fucking seedy bars slinging swill until 3am on every block, either. I walk into the swankest, poshest motherfucking place... I walk into the fucking Hilton, and I want a beer? I got it. I go to a movie, and want to enjoy it with a cold beer? I buy one at the concession stand. The fucking fire hydrants put fires out with it." Curtis took the shot and swore as the cue ball sank into the corner pocket after it's target.   
  
John stepped up to the table to take his turn. "That's fucking stupid, Curtis."  
  
"Hey, fuck you," Curtis returned with a growl. "What do you know about it?"  
  
"Answer me this: how do those jackasses live in a world where any fucking one of them could be drunk? When I wake in the morning, I need some reassurance that I'm waking up to a sane world." John waved the cigarette around wildly as he spoke, dropping ash on the felt tabletop.  
  
"You're totally missing the point," Curtis sighed.  
  
"Oh really? Really? I'm missing the point? Excuse me, Captain fucking 'Freedom', but I think the 'point' is that I don't particularly want to get hit by 6 fucking cars on my way to the bar," John said. "I also don't particularly want to spend ten hours at the fucking store every goddamned day because the pimply-faced snot-nosed kid working checkout is too trashed to figure out how to charge the old bag in front of me for her fucking apple juice." He inhaled deeply on the cigarette, letting the smoke trail out as he spoke. "But, hey, that's just me. If you really want to go into the hospital to get your tonsils out, and have the doctor cut off your balls and replace them with your own eyeballs because he he's so hammered he just starts cutting shit off and putting it back wherever he feels like, because he forgot to ask what you came in for in the first place...be my guest."  
  
Curtis laughed loudly. "You're so full of shit."  
  
"I like my eyes where they are, motherfucker. "  
  
"I pity you, ya know. It's ignorant people like you that make this world a shitty place." Curtis dropped his pool cue on the table and said, "I'm going to take a piss."  
  
Curtis wandered into the back and pushed open the swinging door to the men's room. Inside, he checked stalls, leaning over to look underneath for feet. It was empty. He went back to the main door and looked to see if anyone else was headed over. No one else was coming, so he shut the door and locked it.   
  
Mouth watering with anticipation, he rooted in his pocket for the pack of cigarettes where he'd stashed a razor blade and a small packet of coke. He fumbled with the items, opening the packet on the bathroom counter and carefully laying out what was left. He pulled a little straw out of the cigarette package, and with a quick snort, huffed back the rail of cocaine.   
  
He grunted as he drew his head back and sniffed hard, pulling the powder back. He blinked as his eyes watered, and he shook off the stinging sensation. Bending over again, he put the straw in his mouth and sucked up the tiny crystals left over, cleaning the little packet off. He stuffed the evidence back in the cigarette package and thrust it in his pocket.  
  
As the cocaine hit his brain, he stumbled a little, planting his hands on the counter to steady himself. He hummed a little as he looked up and checked himself out in the mirror.   
  
"Curtis Freley, you are one fine looking son of a bitch," he said, running his hands through his hair to mess it up.  
  
He jumped as there was a thump at the door, followed by a banging knock. "Hey, open up!" grumbled a voice from the other side. He turned back at the mirror to check for any last traces of powder at his nose, then ran to the door as there was another loud knock. He slapped the lock and flung the door open, causing the man who was knocking to pull back in surprise.   
  
"So sorry to keep you waiting, sir," Curtis said with a bow and a fanciful wave, then he straightened and with a cough pushed his way past the man. The man looked at him, about to say something, but when Curtis turned around and raised an expectant eyebrow at him, eyes slightly glazed, he thought better of it and turned to flee into the washroom.  
  
Tilting slightly to the left, Curtis looked around, examining the room. He sniffed deeply again, heart accelerating even faster, and he spotted his friend John back at the pool table. John's back was to him, and he was busy taking a slug of beer while waiting for Curtis to come back and take his turn. Curtis bit down on a maniacal laugh, restraining himself as he walked towards John's back, then at about five feet away he charged at his friend and tackled him.  
  
John squawked as Curtis bowled him over at full speed, pool cue flying and beer sloshing everywhere. He tried to brace himself with his hands, but Curtis landed on his back and yanked at his elbows, prying them backwards and rolling him over.  
  
"What the FUCK are you doing, Curtis!" he demanded as he tried to push Curtis off him as they flopped around. "Jesus Christ, what's got into you!"  
  
"Whatcha gonna do about it?" Curtis asked, grinning at his friend. He straddled John and slapped at his face, pinning John's flailing arms under his knees. "Come on, man, I've been able to beat the crap out of you since gradeschool, you think you're gonna take me now?" Curtis laughed as John grunted in anger, trying to buck him off and free his arms. He succeeded in knocking Curtis off balance and they rolled to one side, bashing into several chairs and a table that a couple was sitting at.   
  
The man and woman leapt back as their drinks sloshed. Curtis and John kept rolling, and the table tilted and fell over. A glass smashed, spilling beer over everyone. The woman screeched at her boyfriend to do something, hiding behind him. John almost scrambled to his feet but swore as Curtis kneed him in the back and dropped him to the ground again.  
  
Curtis immobilized John in a headlock on the floor. "Say uncle! Come on you sonuvabitch, say uncle!" he said, squeezing his biceps a little tighter each time around John's neck. John, sweating and readfaced, tried to elbow him in the stomach. Suddenly, John froze, his eyes darting upwards. Curtis looked up, following his gaze to see the massive hulk of a bartender marching towards them, jowls swinging as he growled and glared at them.   
  
"Take it outside, guys," the bartender said, staring down at them, arms crossed.  
  
Curtis squeezed again at John's neck, getting a small squeak out of John. "As soon as my friend here admits who's the god among men here," Curtis said grinning, panting from the exertions.   
  
John struggled again and tried to pull out of the headlock. Curtis shifted his weight and kicked out his feet to keep from losing the upper hand. His booted foot flew out and knocked the bartender in the knee, striking him off balance and collapsing him like a falling tree next to John and Curtis. The bartender bellowed as he got back to his feet, face turning a florid red and ample stomach shaking with rage.  
  
"That's it! You two get the hell out of here right now!" His massive gut swung around as he grabbed Curtis by the hair with a meaty fist and tossed him aside. Curtis spun his arms around as he flew , losing his balance and banging his head against the oak side of the pool table as he dropped to the ground. He gasped in pain, stunned for a moment, but quickly felt rage and a bolt of surging adrenaline sing through his body. The bartender then turned to John, who was trying to scramble to his feet, stuttering apologies and explanations, but the bartender gave him a kick in the side and sent him rolling.   
  
Curtis leapt to his feet and, reaching into his pocket, let out a blood-curdling scream. He ran towards the bartender, who was standing over John and kicking him in the stomach, and jumped onto his back. He wrapped both hands around the bartender's thick neck, thrashing at him wildly, screaming incoherently.  
  
It was a blur as Curtis savaged the man, and as the bartender tried to get Curtis off his back to no avail. There was a terrible scream from the bartender that ended in a gurgling wail, and then the man's heavy girth dropped to the ground again. Curtis disentangled himself from the bartender, standing upright over him, chest heaving.   
  
Curtis' shirt was soaked in blood. In his right hand, covered in blood to the mid-forearm, was clutched a jack knife.   
  
The bartender was clutching at his throat, blood gushing everywhere. He was reaching up with his other hand, looking for something to cling onto, some kind of help. Curtis leaned over him.   
  
"Leave me and my friend alone, you fucking pig." He spat on the bartender in contempt. He looked at the knife in his hand, and dropped it on the ground next to the bartender. He turned to John, who was inching away slowly.  
  
"Curtis...Jesus Curtis...what did you do that for?" John stuttered, his gaze scrambling back and forth between Curtis, the   
  
knife, and the subsiding form. There was a small gurgling noise from the bartender again, but he was not moving much anymore.  
  
Curtis blinked at his friend, confused. "Nobody fucks around with us, man. Nobody. You think I'm going to let some pig-faced motherfucker mess with my friend? I don't think so. He had no respect. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a lack of respect. Me? I respect my betters. If I don't, I get wailed on, and I learn. All I'm doin' is teaching the world some respect, one pig at a time." He wiped the blood off his hand and arm on his pants, then looked down at the jean material. It was brushed with red, darkening to brown.   
  
"God damnit, I just bought these too."  
  
The bar was eerily still. No one moved. The bartender's body was still now, blood still oozing from his gargantuan form, creating a puddle that was flowing, creeping outwards. The juke box was faintly grinding to the end of a song. The bar was supposed to be closing now, but no one made a move for the exit. It might have been the waitress that was weeping softly in the background, huddling behind the counter.   
  
Through the fogged window of the main doors, there was the flicker of blue and red lighting, the signs of an approaching police car. There was the slam of car doors.   
  
Curtis walked over to their table and picked up the jacket he had left draped over the back of his chair. "Come on man, time to go." He made for the back exit, stepping over the bartender's body and clapping John on the shoulder.  
  
John stood, immobilized, staring at the body. He didn't react to Curtis' direction. John shook his head slowly. He looked up at his friend, who was waiting expectantly for him to follow.  
  
"Curtis...I..."  
  
Curtis looked at John oddly. "What?"  
  
John closed his mouth without another word. "Nothing, man. Nothing. I'm sorry."  
  
The doors opened, and two uniformed cops entered the bar. They flew into action as they took in the body, the blood, the chaos of knocked chairs and tables. In seconds, Curtis and John were face down on the floor, cuffed and bound hand and foot. Curtis kicked and screamed imprecations at the officers as he was dragged into the car. They tossed him in the back seat and left him there.   
  
"John! John, kick their asses!" he shouted through the sealed windows, laughing as he saw them bring John, cuffed and bound like him, to the front door of the bar. John seemed tired and beaten.  
  
As Curtis watched, John's cuffs were removed, and he began to be questioned by one of the cops. Curtis' smile faded. He pressed his face to the metal cage between the back seat and the front seat, trying to see better what was happening between the cops and his friend. John was talking to the cop, and kept glancing over in Curtis' direction, but didn't seem able to bring himself to meet Curtis' desperate gaze. Finally he fully turned his back to the police car and continued talking to the cop in earnest.  
  
Curtis tugged at his cuffs disconsolately and leaned back in his seat. He let his face rest against the cool glass of the backseat window. He sniffed. The coke high was coming off already. He wished he had another rail.  
  
it wasn't the first time he'd been in this position before. He was sure this would mean only a few months, and then he'd be out. An assault charge at the most, maybe a few months of time.  
  
He sniffed again, and closed his eyes. 


End file.
